


For What it Counts

by elimalfoy



Series: For What It Counts, For All It's Worth [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drug Addiction, Illnesses, M/M, Overdosing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimalfoy/pseuds/elimalfoy
Summary: Then it hit him, and even as his internal monologue finally gave out, he tried desperately to figure out who had called them, and how the hell they knew he was about to die.





	For What it Counts

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: somewhat explicit mentions of drug use  
> Basically the drug-addict Draco story I wanted but couldn't find. TBH, it touches on my own life to some degree, just so you know where I'm getting my material. Might be writing a sequel, but no promises since I have MAJOR commitment issues. (see daffodils for proof)

            Swans didn’t sing in the face of mortality, he knew. Plato had just been spouting romantic bullshit or something. _He_ certainly was not singing right now, and why should he? Granted, he wasn’t exactly going out unwillingly. Actually, it had been relatively intentional. Or rather, an unavoidable consequence he hadn’t actively fought against. Although, at this point it was really just a pointless debate of semantics. Bottom line, he would be dead soon. There wasn’t much left to do besides accept his untimely fate.

            Okay, so he could have stopped in the beginning. Maybe not right away, but once the edge had been taken off, he could have tried to _change_. He hated that term. He hated the way it rolled off people lips as they scolded him. He’d shout back about not _wanting_ to, which was really just another cop-out, wasn’t it?

            Somehow, their resentment was only made worse by the fact that he was supplementing with _Muggle_ drugs, a dirty word in his class. Potions were expensive and honestly if you visited the same shops enough times, they started to get suspicious. Back alley bargains were cheaper, and you were encouraged to come back time and time again. Plus, the high was bloody fantastic. Maybe it was the thrill of using something they loathed so much, or maybe Muggles had the right idea after all.

            Either way, overdosing was bound to happen eventually. Well, it had happened already, but Muggles had developed a way of handling their kind’s crisis. He’d found that their cures worked on his magical blood as well. Go figure.

            From the isolation of his very expensive, very exclusive flat, there wasn’t much chance of stumbling into an A&E. Nor was there much chance of being found within the next half hour it would take. At least he would die with some dignity, dressed and in his own bed. Better than half naked, recently shagged, and in some filthy alley. He briefly pondered who would find him, or how long it would take. He rather liked the idea of his mother stumbling upon his rotting carcass. Served the cold bitch right.

            Then again, it could be Pansy, and if his consciousness decided to linger, he might feel the tiniest bit guilty. She’d loved him once upon a time, even though he’d treated her miserably. She hung around even now, even when he’d slept with her fiancée and threw more chaos at her than she was frankly capable of handling. True, she’d stormed off plenty of times and scolded him more than anyone. It would hurt her, maybe, and he knew he’d already caused her enough grief.

            It would be fun if it was Blaise. He’d probably be sick on his pristine white carpet then mutter some humorous string of profanities. If he counted correctly, Blaise would win the entire betting pool his friends had set up. Was it morbid that they had a bet on how long it would take him to die? Well, half of them were on their way out too. There was no judgement among the condemned. Maybe they’d even be happy for him.

            He tried to count the exaggerated ticking of the clock, but all the clicks merged together. Time turned strange when you were high, he discovered. It could have felt like minutes when it had really been hours, or vice versa. The tenant upstairs dropped something on the flour and the muted sound reverberated in his skull. Honestly, show some respect for the dying. Had he left the television on, or were those just the voices in his head? If he could move, he would have shrugged. It didn’t matter in the least.

            A car alarm went off in the distance, loud, unceasing, and pointless. Out of all the times those bloody things went off, how many times was someone actually being robbed? More likely a blind cyclist knocking into a mirror.

            Then again, maybe they were sirens. Had someone else similarly miscalculated their dosage? Had he _actually_ miscalculated though? Maybe his brain had finally had enough of his recklessness and decided to finish him off. Good job, he thought vaguely. It did what he couldn’t.

            _Peace_ , he repeated over and over. It was a mantra, or maybe a prayer. Did heaven accept wizards? As if he’d end up there anyway. Merlin, his last moment on earth and his brain was rambling a mile a minute. A side effect of death? Rip-off dealer probably cut it with speed, or some other new synthetic drug the youth were going crazy for.

            What would his grave say? His mother would put something ridiculously pompous on it. Likely in Latin, in elegant, curvy lettering.

            _Draco Malfoy_

_Born June 5, 1980_

_Died November 17, 2004_

_Forsan miseros meliora sequentur_

            “For those in misery perhaps better things will follow.” Seemed fitting enough. It had been in the running for his father’s memorial but had been deemed too degrading. His mother would have no problem using it for him. The disappointment who was stupid enough to end their family line. She would hate him for it, and he took comfort in that.

            His mind continued to flip through morbid Latin phrase, but the last conscious piece of his brain registered that the car alarm was getting distinctly closer. No, not a car alarm, definitely a siren. The repetitive cycling of high-pitched shrieking wasn’t helping with his headache at all. His irritation with it grew with every passing moment, which could have been mere seconds for all he knew.

            Then his door crashed down and loudly voices penetrated his cold tomb. At first, he forgot that he was dying and that was likely why there had arrived. Then it hit him, and even as his internal monologue finally gave out, he tried desperately to figure out who had called them, and _how the hell they knew he was about to die._

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

            A reassuring sound that meant he had survived, but not one he was exuberant to hear. Not because he wasn’t happy to be alive. Okay, _partially_ because it meant he was alive. Mostly because his head felt like it had been split down the middle. His mouth was sandpaper, his eyes were on fire, and every muscle felt like it had been pulverised by a particularly buff butcher.

            Like he felt after a good shag with Luke, he thought with fond remembrance. He was one of the better ones. Until Luke had stumbled in on him in the throes of passion with a tanned, muscled god he’d picked up at the nearest club. What? They hadn’t been exclusive. _He_ hadn’t thought they were exclusive anyway. He didn’t do exclusive, which was just polite terminology for massive commitment issues.

            Cut him a break. He’d been inducted into a murderous cult when he was sixteen.

            Right. He was still alive, which meant someone had _saved_ him. A horrible word that meant he owed another life debt. However, if he died first, the whole debt became a moot point. He couldn’t owe anyone anything if he wasn’t around.

            Okay. Figure out who he _owed_ exactly. He arranged an alphabetical list in his head.

            Astoria? He hadn’t spoken to her in months. Not since he had to inform her—although he thought it was common knowledge—that he was flaming homosexual and would never follow through with their pureblood imposed marriage.

            Blaise? It was possible. Not entirely likely, since Blaise had probably been too shitfaced to remember he had a disturbed, vulnerable friend.

            Daphne? Too indifferent.

            Gregory? Too dense.

            Narcissa? She would _never_ have called a _Muggle_ ambulance. That was where he was, he knew. Mungo’s had no need of loud machinery and tiresome needles.

            Pansy? Potentially. She could have rung him—he’d let his phone die hours before—and put two and two together.

            Theo? He thought for a moment, then remembered Theo had predeceased him by several weeks. Funny what one forgot thanks to a little brain damage. He was smart enough. He could handle a few lost neurons.

            A name he definitely hadn’t considered was that of the hunched form in the corner. It was a hallucination, he thought hopefully. He blinked rapidly and tried to rub the haze out of his eyes. Not that it would have gotten rid of delusion, and it certainly didn’t get rid of the shaggy haired individual now stirring slightly.

            Best to get a second opinion. Not on his wellbeing, that couldn’t matter less. On the stranger he was desperately hoping meant irreversibly damaged cognitive function. A short, bubbly nurse rushed through the doorway, and seemed visibly relaxed that he wasn’t in acute distress. That indicated that his presenting situation had been severe enough to warrant notable concern.

            “Well, Mr. Malloy. You certainly gave us a scare.”

            He blinked at the address, then figured someone must have given them an alias. Clever. That way his frequent visits wouldn’t have come up, and he wouldn’t have to confund his way out of a psych ward or addiction clinic.

            “Sorry, who brought me here?”

            Her brows furrowed instantly, and he knew she was about to call for a neuro consult. She pointed helpfully towards the man he hoped didn’t actually exist and confirmed his worst fears. His presence was so much worse than lying cold and dead in his bed.

            Bloody Harry Potter and his unyielding need to save everyone.

            Bloody Harry Potter who was now uncurling from his uncomfortable sleeping position and rubbing the knots out of his neck. Any second he would lift those pitying green orbs toward him and silently demand an explanation.

            “Thanks very much,” he murmured to the nurse, insistently gesturing for her to leave. She stayed rooted to the spot for a moment but turned once he shot her a murderous glare. Good to know a few helpful bits of his villainous façade had stuck around.

            “Potter,” he stated, and Harry’s attention fell on him before he could even put a tense amount of emphasis on the “t.”

            “You’re alive, then?” Harry said, too cheerfully and with far too much relief. Maybe that was a normal human reaction. It just didn’t happen to be his own.

            He glanced dramatically and sarcastically at the monitor. “So it would seem.”

            Harry hesitated, then didn’t the most irritating thing he could. He stood up and moved closer to the bed. Merlin, he really didn’t need this right now.

            “Are you…okay? I mean, um, this wasn’t…intentional?”

            He considered saying that it was, if only for the shock value. He supposed he owed it to Harry not to make things any more difficult. He _had_ saved him, as annoying as that was.

            “No, Potter, this was not, um, intentional,” he mimicked Harry’s indecisive tone as best he could in his weakened state.

            “Uh, that’s good.”

            “Fucking brilliant.”

            There was silence as Harry shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands, because he stuffed them into the pockets of his well-worn jeans, then crossed them across his t-shirt clad chest, then ran them through his untameable hair.

            Hair that he’d once loved to run his fingers through, he thought against his will. Sentiment was an unfortunate side effect of being a warm-blooded human. He couldn’t get rid of it, much as he tried. Once upon a time, he thought drugs might do the trick, but they only replayed the torturous memories across his numbed resistance. He might have even grown to like it, not that he’d ever admit it.

            “You’re still using?” Harry croaked. It was almost a whisper.

            Obviously, he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he displayed two arms full of impressive puncture wounds and track marks. They always looked so exaggerated against his porcelain skin. Even the older ones still stood in stark contrast.

            “Look, not that I’m not _thrilled_ and all that you saved me, but would you care to explain how you knew in the first place?”

            Harry glanced at the door anxiously, as if any of the Muggles were going to care what he said. “So, Pansy contacted me,” _Pansy_ , of course it was Pansy, “well, she contacted the Auror department actually. She’d found some obscure clause that said we could place monitoring charms on an individual who we could prove was at risk of hurting other—”

            “I’m a drug abuser, not a serial killer,” he snapped. “I mean, once upon a time, maybe—”

            “You didn’t let me finish. An individual who we could prove was at risk of hurting others or themselves.”

            Bloody brilliant Pansy had discovered a fail proof way of making sure he didn’t end his own life. He’d gotten rid of all her charms as soon as she cast them, but the ministry had always been more elusive. During his probation, short lived as it was, their charms had been nearly undetectable.

            “Here I was thinking your pining had developed into an obsession.”

            Harry blushed fiercely at that. “I’m not pining, Draco.”

            Not _anymore_ , he thought, and he knew Harry thought the same thing. There had been a time when he had. One too many cocktails, a few drunken confessions, and a handful of fumbling shags had led to the awkward task of turning down The Chosen One.

            So he’d fancied Potter since fourth year. It didn’t change the reality. It wasn’t as if the wizarding world’s Golden Boy could have been with the most notorious reformed Death Eater in England. Life wasn’t nearly that compassionate. It had been better to end things quickly and severely. No use giving either of them hope that anything more could have developed.

            He had expected Harry to be disappointed. It would be just like the sentimental Gryffindor that he was to be wounded by a rejection. What he hadn’t expected was that _he_ felt disappointed. He had almost convinced himself that he had the same cold-blood as the Slytherin serpent itself. He had long since abandoned attachments and relationships. They were too messy, and ultimately could only lead to one miserable finale.

            Honestly, if there were one person who deserved his lingering affection, it was the poor bastard who defeated Voldemort. Merlin knows Harry had done him a favour there. The occasional phantom pains where the mark once was reminded him efficiently of that debt.

            “I’m only kidding. Relax. How’s Teo?” That had been the last one’s name, right?

            “Um, back in Portugal, last I heard.” Apparently not.

            “Who has the pleasure of being the Saviours bed buddy these days, then?” It was crude, and he assured himself it was just his usual snarky banter. Nothing unusual. Nothing sentimental at all.

            “No one at the moment,” Harry huffed. “Listen, I don’t really need to talk about this with you right now.”

            “Oh,” he whispered, realization dawning on him, “this is Ministry business, is it?” Of course it was. Harry hadn’t hung around to make sure he was okay.

            “No. I mean, yes, but not in the way you think.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Well, yes. I have to make sure you’re still alive. The whole sticking around think is just—”

            Except Harry never had the chance to finish that touching sentence, because loud screaming from the hallway meant his keeper had arrived. Harry wisely backed away from the bed and attempted to melt into the pastel blue wallpaper.

            “Draco Lucius Malfoy! I swear on Merlin’s dusty remains, that if you _ever_ —”

            “Lovely to see you too, Pansy darling.”

            Pansy did not look remotely pleased to see him. She looked positively murderous. The flames of hell burnt brightly behind her chocolate eyes. Her face was red and contorted in rage. It was heart-warming. She must had been incredibly worried about him.

            Behind her, Harry made a careful dash for the door.

            “Don’t you _dare_ leave, Potter. I would like an explanation as to why I wasn’t notified immediately. I _am_ his emergency contact, am I not?”

            “Uh, the thing is—”

            “The thing is…?” Pansy prompted, swirling around and tapping an impatient finger against her arm.

            “Um, it was the middle of the night.”

            “Is the Ministry often in the habit of failing to contact the loved ones of dying individuals?”

            Harry’s face was several shades paler than it should have been. He enjoyed the show and the brief moments before Pansy would focus her demands on him once again.

            “I should, um, leave now.” Nice exit strategy Potter, he thought.

            “No, I’m not finished with you yet.” Potter went rigid and ran his fingers roughly through his mop of black curls. He always did when he was anxious. “Now, my dearest Draco. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

            “Yeah.  My new dealer must have messed with the chemistry or something.”

            “New?”

            “Last one overdosed, I think.” Well, he knew, actually, but that was hardly something he needed to share.

            “Pity you didn’t take that as a warning. Tell me, how many times has this happened?”

            More than he was about to admit. “Three.”

            “You’re lying, Draco.” He needed to figure out how she always knew. It was suffocated never being able to trick her.

            “Four.” She continued her glare. “Fine. Six, okay? Only six.” And even that was a conservative estimate.

            Judging by both Harry and her reaction “only” wasn’t the acceptable phrase.

            “Are you going to stop now?” she asked, but it was more of a desperate plead. He shrugged, which meant he probably wasn’t. “So, you’re set on continuing until you kill yourself?”

            He shrugged again, which meant he probably would. It wasn’t like he had much to live for anyway. He was just one insignificant, inconsequential life. His death wouldn’t be something to mourn or grieve about. They’d all get over it quickly enough.

            “Potter, could you please inform Draco of the consequences of his actions?”

            Consequences? That word never meant anything pleasant. Except when it came from the swollen lips of a bossy dominant. Then it certainly meant something enjoyable.

            “Well, either constant drug monitoring, court mandated detox, or prison time.”

            “ _Excuse me_?” he gasped, sitting bolt upright. The resulting sensation was nearly enough to make him sick all over the cheap linoleum flooring.

            “What you’re doing is illegal. You know that, right? Buying illegal substances, Muggle drug or potion, is a crime in both realms.”

            Well, _obviously_ , he thought. It always had been, but no one had done anything about it before.

            “What’s it going to be, Draco?” Pansy asked, and the ensuing contemplation was enough to drive his throbbing migraine out of control.

            _Constant drug monitoring_. A charm that would inform the Ministry the moment a substance entered his system. Likely one he couldn’t tamper with or remove without alerting them. Another violation probably meant one of the other options as a result.

            _Court mandated detox_. Okay, so he’d been to Muggle rehabs before and they had been more than unbearable. Wizard ones might be better, he thought hopefully. He knew it wasn’t true. It would only mean a few weeks of abstaining though, unless a charm was put in place afterwards.

            _Prison_. Well, that was easily ruled out. He’d only spent three weeks in Azkaban after the war and he still had nightmares about the concrete walls caving in on him. He’d heard the dementors were removed, but maybe still having a soul and being locked in those dark cells was a worse fate.

            Two pairs of eyes were trained insistently on him. They weren’t going to subside until he made a decision. Who did they think they were? What gave them the right to try and control whether he chose to live or die? If he wanted to destroy his body and mind, it was his bloody choice. Their interference had crossed a line.

            Then the memory of mystery meat stew and mouldy, stale bread flashed in front of him. He rather enjoyed his expensive wines and gourmet meals. He certainly preferred his fashionable, tailor-made suits to the rough, tacky linen of prison uniforms. He absolutely couldn’t go back to having to take a shit in front of other people.

            “Monitoring,” he grumbled under his breath. Pansy cupped a hand around her ear as if she hadn’t heard him. He knew she had and was just making a show of annoying him further. “I said monitoring!”

            His shout echoed in the room and reverberated throughout his skull. He really was sick on the floor then.

            “So, I’ll, uh, come back later for the charm,” Harry muttered and finally managed to escape from the now foul-smelling room.

            Pansy smiled sweetly and grabbed a cloth to wipe the residual mess of his face. He had never hated someone and loved them so much at the same time. She was a ridiculous, meddling, controlling woman, and probably the best friend he’d ever have. She might have even been the one person who had truly loved him in his miserable life.

           

            One of them had managed to sweet talk the staff into letting him leave far too early and with no pesky psych exam or crisis intervention. Maybe less sweet talk and more heavily implied memory modification. They didn’t even have to fill out any discharge paperwork. Maybe he should get Harry involved more often.

            Nope. Definitely not, he firmly reminded himself. Involving Harry meant involving the Ministry, and that ultimately led to one thing: no more drugs. He could live with it, a voice told him, while another told him it wouldn’t be permanent and he’d be free to use again soon. He’d meant to ask, but perhaps it would have sounded a bit shady. Hey, I know I can’t take illegal drugs, but just out of curiosity, how long are you going to be monitoring me?

            Three months, max, he thought optimistically. That’s how long he’d been on probation for joining a terrorist group bent on destroying the planet. Surely a few illegal substances wouldn’t warrant more time than that did.

            He _could_ live without them, he stated firmly. He just didn’t _want_ to. It was an important distinction to make. Especially when the debate was only going on inside his head and what did he need to convince himself of anyway? He knew who he was. He knew his shortcomings and was man enough to own up to them.

            He played the ditsy, drunk bimbo at clubs to get attention. It was an act, and it wasn’t like his partners didn’t get just as much out of it as he did.  A nice baggie of powder in exchange for whatever they wanted. Well, it wasn’t a business transaction every time. If he spotted someone interesting enough, there was no charge. Merlin, that made him sound like a hooker. He was _not_ , he announced to the empty space of his mind.

            He didn’t make the effort to see his mother enough. Objectively, that might be considered a flaw. Children were supposed to love their parents, or some bullshit propaganda like that. His mother on the other hand…scratch that. The flaw was when he _did_ make an effort to see her.

            Not to point out the _obvious_ but joining Voldemort’s movement hadn’t exactly been his proudest moment. True, he’d never bought into the whole superiority ideology or _actively_ tried to harm anyone, but he also hadn’t _actively_ tried to resist him. Listen, he was young and pretty sure his life was on the line. Still, it did put a rather permanent stain on his track record. Not really something people forget quickly. Not really something he could forget quickly, or ever.

            Trauma leads to destructive coping skills, some underpaid, miserable shrink told him after a particularly harrowing overdose. Trauma my perfect ass, he thought, and continued to ignore the balding man claiming to have his best interests at heart. That wasn’t important right now, though. Flaws, he reminded himself.

            Well, his love life was about as stable as a swiftly burning and collapsing sky scraper. He could jump ship maybe, find someone, settle down. He scoffed loudly at the notion. Unlikely. Commitment meant vulnerability. It meant giving up who he was to conform to someone else. It meant caring, and like he said, caring was not something he was particularly interest in at the moment. If love was meant to complete you, he would gladly remain incomplete.

            Harry had been…No. He stopped himself, but not before that gut-wrenching sensation firmly took hold. You’ll get over it. Isn’t that what everyone said about break ups? They hadn’t even been together. He’d made sure of that. He’d made sure to keep him at a safe distance, where he couldn’t hurt him. Where he couldn’t get hurt, an annoying voice told him. He was used to pain. He could handle it. He just couldn’t stand the look on Harry’s face the next time he fucked up. Or the time after that. Not then, not now, not ever. There was safety in isolation. For everyone, he added half-heartedly.

            No use dwelling on it. _Semper porro_ , or something like that.

            He spent too much time on his appearance.

            He spent too much of his inheritance on pointless, extravagant things. He didn’t need nearly as many pairs of arse hugging pants as he did. Spending his father’s money gave him a smug satisfaction, though. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to plan what he would do once he blew it all. He usually just assumed he wouldn’t be around long enough to see the day.

            He treated his friends like shit. In his defence, it was quid pro qui arrangement. Misery loves company.

            He’d given leprechaun gold to a few Muggle dealers. Not because he couldn’t afford it, but because he wanted to see what would happen. Nothing, as it turned out. They hardly noticed the absence, which was either a comment on their thriving business or their oblivion to the weight of their pockets. They’d been rather fascinated by the strange gold coins, if he recalled correctly.

            He was a drug addict. _User_ , he corrected. Addicts couldn’t stop. He could. If he _wanted_ to, of course.

            Okay, so he was a horrible person. He owned it. He didn’t deny it. Some embellishing never hurt anyone. A few white lies here and there avoided excessive intrusion. Maybe it was a foolish path, but it was working for him just fine.

 _Fine_ might not have been the best word, in hindsight. He was facing illegal drug possession charges, and the unfortunate task of avoiding substances for at least a few weeks.

            A thought occurred to him then. Alcohol was a _legal_ substance, wasn’t it? He could double check, or he could get pissed and wait for Harry to show up. _Not Harry_. A Ministry law enforcement officer. He could put on a performance of feigned innocence and confusion worthy of a BAFTA. His bar was probably running low, but there was definitely enough for one or two terrible hangovers. Reinforcements could always be acquired from his local bottle shop. They liked him there, liked the fat tip he always left in their jar. The blowjob he gave in lieu of payment once. _Just once_.

 

            As it turned out, alcohol _was_ on his list of prohibited substances. Go figure. By the time his door flew open, he was comfortably settled in a state of complete indifference. It was Harry who showed up in the end. He didn’t look like he’d come from work. What time was it? He looked like he’d been woken up, still clad in lounge clothes and his glasses slightly askew. He seemed more concerned than upset. Drunk optimism on his part, he assured himself.

            “It’s only been a few hours. You seriously couldn’t stop yourself?”

            He clucked his tongue. Harry disapproved. Well, he could join the club then.

            “It’s a _legal_ drug,” he mumbled, slurring his words just enough for it to be noticeable.

            “Not for you it isn’t.”

            “Says who?” he demanded impatiently.

            “Says the terms of your leniency.”

            He shrugged and sighed as if it couldn’t be helped. “Have you come to arrest me then? I don’t suppose you have a pair of handcuffs on you. They can be quite entertaining in my experience.”

            “Don’t be vulgar,” Harry grumbled, a not-so-subtle rose tint spreading to his cheeks.

            “Why have you come then?”

            “The charm went off.”

            Simple enough answer. Nice job of avoiding the actual question. “And you didn’t report it to the Ministry? Why?”

            Harry shifted uncomfortably. He was embarrassed. How endearing.

            “I don’t know yet.”

            “Yet,” he repeated, sloshing the amber liquid around the glass in a sort of tornado inducing movement. “If you don’t mind, when will you know? Only, I’d like to finish this and hopefully slip into a coma.”

            Harry’s eyes glittered with pain. Merlin, that puppy dog look was going to be the death of him. “Relax, I’m only kidding. I’ve had enough dying for one day, thanks very much. I would like to sleep though.”

            “Why don’t you, I don’t know, read a book, count sheep, like _normal_ people do?”

            He laughed humourlessly. “Because I’m not _normal_ , am I? Surely you know that by now.”

            “You used to be,” Harry whispered, barely audible.

            “No, I never was. You wanted me to be. You like seeing the good in people, even when it isn’t there.”

            “You’re wrong.”

            “No, and I’m getting fucking tired of this,” he snapped. So, he was going to be an angry drunk tonight. Just as well. “I’m not your pet project. You can’t save me. I don’t know why you agreed to Pansy’s ridiculous scheme. No other Auror would. If you’ve forgotten, I’m the scum of society. They’d all gladly see my blue, bloated corpse. Let it go. Find someone who deserves you help.”

            Much to his surprise, when he lifted his eyes from his nearly empty tumbler, Harry looked just as furious as he did.

            “You’re a drama queen.”

            “Yes, thank you very much.” It wasn’t the worst he’d been called. He almost liked the way it sounded, what it meant. He’d always liked being the centre of attention.

            “No, I’m serious. You need to stop this. Get over yourself, or whatever. You think you’re the only one who wants to numb the pain?”

            “I’m just a cowardly Slytherin, Potter,” he moaned dramatically. _Drama queen_.

            “You’re making excuses that you frankly have no right to,” Harry grunted cryptically. “And my name’s Harry, not Potter, not Saviour, not Chosen One, not the Boy Who Lived.”

            Familiarity equated attachment, he reminded himself. “I’m just going to pretend I know what you’re alluding to. I’m too tired to think about your mysterious thought process.”

            “I mean…you’re not a ‘cowardly Slytherin.’ You’re not the ‘scum of society.’ You _do_ have good in you. And yes, you are a bloody drama queen about it!”

            For a moment, he wondered if Harry Potter was actually in his living room screaming about his redeeming qualities. More likely, his withdrawal crazed, alcohol hazed mind was playing tricks on him.

            No, strong, calloused hands were yanking the glass from his lax grip. A small burst of flames escaped as the glass shattered against his chimney wall. It was empty anyway, he comforted himself. There was more where that came from, anyway. Except there wasn’t, because Harry was stomping off in hot pursuit of his remaining stash.

            That was definitely not a good thing. Time to go full drama queen mode, he decided.

            Harry had located the first whiskey bottle on the kitchen counter. It had been highly visible, not exactly Auror trained detective work. Harry thrust the sink handle up violently and quickly began dumping the still half full bottle down the drain.

            It was very hard not to instinctively scramble to stop him. Watching the magical, throat burning substance mix with the unappealing tap and rush away was more painful than he’d ever admits. It was a waste, he thought, an expensive year. He was upset over the waste, not the loss.

            Then Harry managed to find two more bottles under the sink, and that’s when he lost all control. What kind of heathen threw away good Johnnie Walker? Without thinking, his hand reached out and snapped around Harry’s wrist.

            Harry froze, and looked at him with something bordering dangerously upon pain. What was it to Harry if he destroyed his liver? Asphyxiated in his sleep? Overdosed in some back alley? Harry, of all people, shouldn’t have looked at him as though this inclement downwards spiral had some grand impact on him. Harry shouldn’t care. Harry should—

            “You should leave,” he whispered, his voice was scratchy, and he hoped it didn’t sound nearly as emotional as he felt.

            Harry stood his ground, bottle still half tipped, wrist still held firmly in place. “Has it started yet?”

            “Has what started yet?” he asked, not really in the mood for this conversation.

            “The symptoms, the, uh, withdrawals.”

            He didn’t answer but dropped Harry’s hand. He felt drained and exhausted, and if he answered that question honestly then he’d have to admit that it was. Alcohol would help, he’d thought. Now the alcohol was gone and the insufficient relief it brought as well.

            He sat back down in his chair and hoped that if he sat at the right angle, pinned his hands underneath himself tightly enough, and absolutely avoided the thought of food, Harry might not notice either. _Peaks between twenty-four and forty-eight hours_ , the distant memory of a pamphlet said. He still had a few hours until shit really hit the fan. With any chance, Harry would have scurried off by then.

            “What happens next?” Harry asked, taking an unoffered seat across from him.

            You kindly fuck off, he thought, but didn’t say.

            Different for everyone, a detox nurse once told him. Different my ass. He was pretty sure withdrawal was miserable across the board. Not that it was a surprise he happened to enjoy the worst of them all. Nausea and shaking, the nurse said, that’s mostly it. Well, if nausea meant being violently ill for hours on end, spewing more liquid than you thought capable of containing, rupturing your stomach lining in the process, then yeah, that was accurate.

            What they all failed to warn him of was the special psychological side effects his sobering provided. For example, the fact that on a number of occasions, his _very dead_ father managed to reappear to tell him just how worthless he truly was. Or magically, pun intended, being transported back to the Voldemort infested manor, having to watch Nagini devour people right in front of him, or being tortured whenever there weren’t any prisoners available for the evening’s entertainment.

            Sweating, shaking, screaming, withdrawal was almost like being cursed. _Almost_ , with the exception of the fault belonging to someone else. Not one’s own self destruction.

            “You should leave,” he said again, and once again, Harry didn’t listen.

            “Do you still keep films back there?” Harry asked, ignoring his request, and gesturing towards the cupboard.

            “No.” However, the truth was that yes, he did keep films there. Just another Muggle thing that he enjoyed, he supposed. Harry knew this and went to rifle through them.

            They’d watched _The 300_ last time, and spent the whole time commenting on Gerard Butler’s unbelievably gorgeous abs. Halfway through, he’d told Harry he wasn’t looking for anything serious. Harry had pretended to be cool with it, which had lasted for approximately three more weeks. As it turned out, Harry _wasn’t_ cool with it. Not exactly a surprise, he knew. Interesting how long things managed to drag out though, even if that meant it would take even longer to get over. _If you ever get over him_ , a voice chided. Had the hallucinations started already?

            “How ‘bout _Alien_?” Harry offered, reappearing in front of him.

            He shook his head quickly. “Nothing horror. I don’t really need the creative inspiration right now.”

            If a look of guilt crossed Harry’s face, it was gone quickly enough that he could pretend not to have seen it.

            “Draco, all you have is horror, violence, and gore.”

            What, he had to be some romantic comedy craving stereotype? He understood darkness and seeing a Muggle’s perspective on it was both amusing and educational.

            “Furthest left on the top shelf, and don’t you dare laugh about it.” Fine, he had one guilty pleasure. Not that he’d ever admit it under normal circumstances.

            “ _Love Acutally_? Seriously?” Harry said behind him, definitely laughing, definitely doing exactly what he’d asked him not to. “Sorry, I mean, um, I just wouldn’t expect you to like this kind of thing.”

            “You have to own at least one Christmas movie,” he tried to say in defence.

            “You hate Christmas.”

            “I’m afraid you’ve got me there,” he sighed. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas since Voldemort’s return. Even then, Christmas had entailed a house elf decorated tree, a painfully long Christmas meal, and a cold, impersonal stack of respectable presents he’d open in private 

            “So what? Does Draco Malfoy have a heart buried deep inside him?”

            He scoffed, although he wasn’t sure that meant that he obviously didn’t, or maybe that he almost did.

            “Are you going to put it on or not?” he mumbled finally.

            It certainly wasn’t the night he’d anticipated. Pre-wake up with Harry at his bedside, he might have imagined another night of perusing the local drug dens. Post-being monitored by the Ministry he had at least found solace in the promise of alcohol. Even after Harry had stormed through his door, he had resigned himself to a dark, dull night of his body trying its utmost to reject him.

            Summary: he never thought he’d be huddled on his couch trying to listen to Alan Rickman’s secretary proposition him and trying desperately to ignore Harry’s overbearing presence only a few feet away.

            “Are you cold? You’re shivering like crazy.” Harry asked. No, he had three blankets, a heavy jacket, and a thick pair of socks. He wasn’t _cold_. Harry seemed to get it too, and awkwardly looked with much interest at his scuffed-up trainers instead.

            Colin was about to have an orgy with the Wisconsin girls. Just focus on the movie, he reminded himself. Less than an hour left, right? Maybe Harry would do them both a favour and feign exhaustion just to leave. He had no reason to stay. The alcohol was gone. _Mostly_ gone, he remembered, still a self-filling flask in his sock drawer.

            He _really_ hoped Harry would leave soon. It was getting worse. The sound of his teeth clicking together was clearly audible over the cheesy eighties pop songs. His stomach was sending him so not-so-subtle signals that it was about to turn on him, and he didn’t need an audience for that shit show. Literally. Nor did he particularly want to explain that no, he wasn’t talking to Harry, he was talking to his hallucinated father across the room.

            As always, Harry didn’t have any intention of leaving. He was too stubborn and chivalrous for that. His inclination towards helping everyone was infuriating, and it was _definitely_ infuriating that Harry was now shifting down the couch to wrap two strong, stable arms around him. _Definitively_ infuriating. Nothing comforting about it.

            His body was reacting to a lack of drugs, that was all, and he _definitely_ wasn’t relaxing into the embrace. If he could, he would have moved away. He only accepted it because he had to. _Attachment_ , a voice clucked.

            “What are you doing?” he muttered through a tight jaw.

            “You’re shaking the entire couch,” Harry said with a casual shrug.

            “I’m still shaking the entire couch.”

            “Not as much.”

            “You should leave,” he said again. It was the only thing he could say at this point. He couldn’t ask Harry to keep holding him. He couldn’t ask Harry to stay with him tonight.

            “So you’ve said.”

            So you haven’t listened, he thought. He was too tired to argue anymore, though. As annoying as Harry might be, having someone so close had a calming effect. A minimal effect, that is. He’d read something about contact induced endorphin releases once. That was all it was, a completely justifiable, biological reaction.

            He could suffer the embarrassment, he decided, as long as it meant that he was finally calm enough to close his eyes for a few minutes. Only a few minutes, and then he’d tell Harry to leave again. Maybe he would listen, even if a part of him hoped he wouldn’t.

            A few minutes turned into a few hours, judging by the first few drops of sunrise tinting the night sky. Any moment the nausea would hit him. The shaking had never fully stopped. At least Harry had the decency to give him a pillow before leaving.

            A _moving_ pillow, he realized with a terrible sense of dread. He prayed that it was only the rebounding of his own spastic movements. It wasn’t, of course. The pillow was moving in a breath-like cycle…no, the pillow _was_ breathing.

            The pillow was Harry Potter.

            Maybe it was that thought that triggered it, or maybe he’d finally reached the peak of his withdrawal. Either way, he didn’t manage to get to the nearest bin in time. Luckily, he hadn’t eaten since…he couldn’t remember when, actually. Point being, there wasn’t so much that he couldn’t wash away the evidence with Harry being none the wiser.

            Except Harry had noticed his rapid movement, apparently, and had witnessed the whole thing. Wonderful, he wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough already. Honestly, being sober was punishment enough. He didn’t need the added shame of having the Saviour in the front row. No one needed to see what he was going through.

            What made it worse was that Harry was being so infuriatingly kind about the whole thing. Watching a movie with him, letting him fall asleep on his lap, and now offering to clean up his vomit. It was unbearable. Why should Harry act like he cared? There were people who _should_ have cared, and didn’t, and Harry certainly wasn’t one of them. Harry shouldn’t want anything to do with him. It was safe that way. For both of them.

            “You should leave,” he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse and wispy. He sounded like a broken record, or whatever the Muggles said.

            “Are you going to keep saying that?”

            “Are you going to leave?” he snapped, grabbing the rag he was being offered. “So I guess we have our answers then.”

            “Do you want some toast?” Harry tried, clearly overcompensating by being far too cheerful. He had to clutch the counter edge tightly to cope with the overwhelming need to vomit again. The mere idea of toast sent his stomach swirling.

            “Okay, not toast. What would you like?” He sent Harry a look that meant he knew bloody well what he would like. “Food wise. What would you like food wise?”

            He shook his head as slowly as he could, hoping not to make his swimming vision any worse. Food was not a good idea.

            “Well, what do you have then?” Harry asked with a definite tone of frustration. He pried open the fridge doors, then rifled through a few drawers. “There’s nothing here. What do you eat?”

            He shrugged, and the knowledge that he didn’t eat anything was left an unspoken truth between the two of them. He did eat, just very rarely, and at nice, expensive restaurants. Alcohol had calories, didn’t it?

            Harry kept on searching his barren cabinets. He heard the distinct sound of a kettle being turned on. Tea. The English solution to every calamity that could possibly be thrown at you. Keep calm and carry on and all that nonsense.

            He needed to move, but if his legs had responded to him before, they certainly weren’t anymore. He despised asking for help. It might have been better with Pansy. She’d seen him like this before. Still, unless he intended on collapsing into a pile of his own sick and sweat, he’d have to suffer the humiliation.

            “I need to…move,” he whispered. Harry moved quickly, infuriatingly compliant and willing to do whatever he asked. “Just…my bathroom.”

            At least Harry hadn’t gone as far as picking him up. Half carrying him had worked well enough. He settled himself on the plush bathmat he’d spent many a night curled up on. He gladly ran a hand over the shag material once again.

            Harry looked down at him as if he was torn between staying or returning to finish the tea.

            “Relax. I’m not going to drown myself in the toilet bowl.”

            It was meant to sound humorous, but Harry clearly didn’t think so. Too soon apparently. He wasn’t suicidal, he felt like saying. Passively, maybe, but not actively. Anyway, he wasn’t so desperate yet that he would resort to such an unsavoury method.

            “Just leave the door open. It’s not like I can get up and close it right now.”

            Harry assessed his hunched form and decided he was probably right. He might have been able to, if he used every ounce of strength he had left. It wasn’t worth it though. Harry was clearly so determined he would blow the whole thing off its hinges without a second though.

            His stomach, as it turned out, wasn’t quick in rejecting the tea. It was incredibly sweet, just the way he liked it, not that he openly admitted it. Normally he liked a healthy serving of cream as well, but it was probably for the best that anything rich was left out.

            The thought of tea inevitably led to the thought of scones and pastries, which inevitably led to another rebelling of his stomach. At least he made it to the toilet this time. Harry, still determined not to leave, sat across from him calmly sipping his own mug. He accepted the outstretched cloth, although he pretended to be much more irritated by it than he really was.

            “Why are you still here?”

            “I’m keeping an eye on you,” Harry said simply.

            “You could have just done a sweep of the place, gotten rid of it all. You didn’t have to stick around. You _don’t_ have to stick around.”

            “Why can’t you just let me help?” Harry demanded, softly but insistently.

            “Because you shouldn’t.” It wasn’t advanced arithmancy. Harry was the shining light of the wizarding world, the rock star of the Auror department, the one who had bloody _defeated_ Voldemort. He shouldn’t have been devoting his time to cleaning up after a Death-Eater-turned-junkie. No part of Harry’s job description entailed taking care of someone as unimportant and irrelevant as him.

            “Well, luckily, you don’t get to make that decision for me.”

            “Don’t pretend that you actually _want_ to be here.”

            Silence. Painful, miserable silence. Harry shouldn’t want to be here taking care of the pathetic shell of a human being he’d become.

            “Do I _want_ to be here? No, not particularly.” There it was. At least Harry could admit it. “I don’t _want_ to be here, because I don’t _want_ you to be abusing your body like this. I don’t like that you’ve done this to yourself, and I don’t like to see you suffering. I can’t understand it. I can’t understand why you’re so comfortable with wasting away and ruining all the good things you have.

            “I _want_ to be here because I _want_ you to get thought this. I don’t want to wake up one day and find out that you’ve killed yourself in your quest for total oblivion. I don’t relish in the knowledge that while I’ve been living my life you’ve been doing everything you could not to do the same. Believe it or not, I really don’t want to live in a world where you don’t.”

            It was too much. It was too honest. _Attachment_ , a voice reminded him. It was strange that he felt more strangled by someone caring so much than he ever had by the indifference of everyone else.

            “Pining,” he said with a small click of his tongue. Harry shoved his foot roughly.

            “You asked about my love life, back at the…” Harry drifted off awkwardly for a moment. At the hospital? He wanted to ask. They both knew what he was talking about. He didn’t need to tiptoe around the subject. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

            He sent Harry a menacing glare, which, unfortunately, didn’t have the impact he’d hoped for. Honestly, what sort of answer did he expect? That in his current state, he’d have some long term partner? “I got married last month, didn’t you hear? Your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.”

            “Oh yeah? What’s his name?” Harry said, humouring him by continuing the clearly false story.

            “ _Her_ name, as a matter of fact. Turns out I’m not a cocksucker after all. She’s pregnant, you see. We had to get married to preserve her purity, and all that.”

            “Boy or girl?”

            “I’m a Malfoy, Potter, we don’t have daughters.”

            “ _Harry_.”

            “Well, it’s a boy, if you want to know so much. We’re naming him Scorpius, you know, continuing the horrific family tradition of absolutely ridiculous names.”

            “Scorpius?” Harry mused. Still as uncultured as ever.

            “Scorpion. Supposedly killed Orion, the hunter. It serve as a reminder to mankind not to get too cocky, or something like that.”

            Harry laughed a bit too loudly than was strictly necessary. “So, your son would be the ultimate reminder to tone down your dramatic ways?”

            “There’s a difference between excessive pride and being proud.”

            “Are you proud of yourself?” The moment the words left Harry’s mouth, he regretted it. His face quickly became contorted with the need to apologize. He waved off the impending excuses.

            Harry hadn’t meant it that way, or maybe he had a little. The question was justified, given their present place on his bathroom floor. It wasn’t like he needed to ponder the answer for long. He knew very well the state to which he’d fallen. He’d never been proud, not really. His pretentious schoolboy persona had been a mask, something he’d been trained in. A Malfoy was never week, and a Malfoy always knew they were the best. Even if he didn’t believe a word of it, he had to keep up appearances.

            Or else suffer the consequences.

            Which, of course, was the perfect time for his father to turn up. Perched perfectly as ever on his vanity. The unveiled disgust on his face wasn’t unfamiliar. In fact, his father had almost exclusively looked at him with repulsion. He was just a hallucination, he reminded himself. Nothing he said was new material, it was all just the memory of what had been. Unfortunately, it turned out the same things still had the same ability to affect him, even if he was a good many years older.

            “Here I was, thinking you could fall no further,” his father’s searing voice drawled. “You’ve failed the Dark Lord, you’ve failed me, and now you’ve failed the Malfoy name as well. Are you happy that you’ve finally tarnished us beyond repair?”

            “No, I’m pretty sure you did that yourself,” he heard himself say, out-loud, which wasn’t going to reassure Harry much.

            “Perhaps a lesson in respect is long overdue. I never was able to beat that insolence out of you.”

            “You sure as hell tried though, didn’t you?”

            “You will hold your tongue when I’m speaking! What will it be today, Draco?”

            _What will it be today, Draco?_ And just like that, he was back in his small body and unnecessarily garish clothing. The winding corridors of the manor drifted dizzyingly as he walked through them. He knew where he was going before he arrived there. The doors to his father’s study always looked like the ominous Gates of Hell, seated perfectly at the end of the portrait gallery. That way he would have to face the scorn of his ancestors before receiving his father’s punishments.

            “What will it be today, Draco?”

            His eyes drifted across the table. He was familiar with them all. He knew all their uses and the pain they inevitably caused him. His father was being lenient today. The larger objects had been replaced by small, painful trials. A logic puzzle of sorts, his father had called them. Except there was no logic and he got burned no matter what. It was just an entertaining show, watching his son frantically try to solve something before the curses hit.

            Nothing that leaves a permanent damage, his father had promised. Which promised nothing, really, with the almost universal healing power of magic available. Bruises could vanish in moments, cuts in seconds, and bones with a healthy dose of Skele-grow. Unbearable pain could be solved quickly and without raising anyone else’s suspicion.

            “Well, boy?” his father demanded, harsher this time.

            He was just beginning to reach for the ring, one of the worst available, and the one he always chose, when the image became distorted. It seemed to tear in half, and he realized it was because someone was trying very hard to wake him up. Poor Harry, he didn’t want to imagine what he’d witnessed.

            “Merlin’s ancient balls, I thought you’d died,” Harry whispered, heaving a great sigh of relief.

            “Let’s not talk about anyone’s balls or I will be sick again.”

            “Are you—where were—what just—” Harry stammered uncertainly.

            “I’m exhausted. Think you can help me to the bed?”

            He was dodging the question, and Harry must have known it. However, the Golden Boy was nothing if not helpful and obedient. It took some more awkward manoeuvring and heavy grunting to get him back on his feet this time.

            His bed was cool and soft, even if it did bob about like a small boat at sea. He let his hot cheeks be soothed by the Mulberry silk sheets. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could dissolve into the mattress itself.

            The bed sank sharply beside him, and he knew Harry had taken it upon himself to lie down as well. Uninvited. Well, he supposed Harry deserved some leniency after everything he’d put up with already. He’d let him rest for five minutes, _just_ five minutes. Then he’d tell him to leave again. Maybe he’d listen.

            “Are you alright?” Harry’s voice drifted from the other side of the bed.

            “Hmmm,” he said, the noise neither saying yes nor no. He wasn’t, of course, but he never was, was he? It was too exhausting to think about. What did “alright” even mean? Physically? No. Emotionally? Definitely not.

            “What was that, back there? You were talking to someone…”

            Harry had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. Maybe he thought withdrawal would be no big deal, and maybe it wouldn’t have been, if he didn’t happen to be Draco-traumatic-childhood-Malfoy.

            “Side effect,” he murmured simply.

            “Of what?” Well, Harry was asking the big questions now. Side effect of what? That was a thought he wasn’t particularly interested in delving into. Drugs most certainly didn’t help. Then again, hadn’t he been this way, even before? It seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime, really. The war, the aftermath, it didn’t feel real most days. Maybe it had all been a terrible dream and he hadn’t woken up yet. Wishful thinking, he knew.

            “Is that why you…you know?”

            “Why I what?” He was getting bored with Harry’s politeness. He never had been good at confrontation. Even back at school, he’d only ever responded to his taunts, never initiated them. Back then, he’d almost wanted Harry to start something. It had been like chasing something that didn’t even mind being chased. Maybe it was Harry’s indifference had hurt the most. He would watch from a distance at the Golden Boy’s golden life, and never quite manage to be a part of it.

            “Why you do this to yourself,” Harry declared, almost angrily, sitting up sharply and jostling the bed. Just when he’d got it to stay still, he thought silently.

            “Why I do this to myself? What, why I abuse drugs? I don’t think you have the capability to comprehend the answer.”

            It was a cop-out. He didn’t even know the answer. If he did, it wasn’t like the perfect Harry Potter would understand his plight from deprived child to drug addict. _User_ , he corrected.

            “You’d be surprised.”

            He scoffed. He needed to keep pushing him away, he decided. Maybe if he kept insulting him long enough, Harry would finally get fed up and leave. _Attachment_. It would be better for both of them. _For you_ , a voice said, and he quickly ignored it.

            “I didn’t have the perfect life, you know. What they say about my Muggle family? It’s all true. Actually, it was worse than that. I was treated worse than a house-elf. I cooked, cleaned, and waited on them my whole childhood. If I stepped a toe out of line, I got locked in a cupboard for days, even weeks. Until the day that I found out I was a wizard, I believed I deserved every bit of it.”  
            Merlin, the last thing he needed was to feel like Harry did understand him. He didn’t need that _attachment_ , that sympathy. It was almost worse than pity. At least with that people were clearly detached from him. Sympathy implied comradery. It meant that he and Harry had something in common, and he really didn’t need a reason to keep him around. _Attachment_.

            “Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know.” The words from some bizarre animation popped into his head. He laughed out loud at the image of some magical ice princess, then stopped quickly when he realized it might had seemed like he found Harry’s terrible upbringing comical.

            “Sorry, that wasn’t…I didn’t know.”

            “I don’t talk about it much.”

            There was a pause, and even though he wanted nothing more than surrender to that silence, he needed to end the theme of confession quickly.

              “If this is the part where you expect me to return the favour, I’m afraid you’re in for disappointment.”

            “Why don’t you let people in? Why don’t you let us help you?”

            “Because you shouldn’t.”

            Harry let out a small sigh of exasperation. “You already said that. What does that even mean? Surely I can decide what I should and shouldn’t do.”

            “Harry Potter always thinks he can save everyone. He sees the world with unfalteringly optimistic eyes. He hasn’t learned that some people don’t deserve saving, that some people can’t be saved. It’s simple. I am beyond even his realm of magical prowess.”

            “Will you stop that?” Harry demanded, loud enough to send his stomach into another fit.

            “Pass me the bin,” he said with a distinguishable note of desperation. Harry did, still grumbling about his stubbornness. Then left the room, and he hoped not to return.

            Of course he did, though. Cold flannel and water bottle in hand. Harry’s look of frustration somehow made him look even more determined to help him. It was like his anger translated into sheer dedication to nursing his failing body.

            “Leave,” he whispered. It wasn’t a request this time, it was an order. Although, it didn’t sound very demanding coming from his tired and cracked mouth.

            “No.”

            “ _Please_ leave.”

            “No,” Harry repeated stubbornly. He would never win the argument, and he didn’t have the energy to keep up the fight. If Harry was so determined to sit there and watch him suffer, so be it.

            “Why do you say things like that?” Harry asked, more quietly now. His eyes flickered open, knowing he needed to focus on what Harry was saying. He couldn’t quite make out the face, the untameable mass of curls had blurred into some ominous halo, and his glasses looked like giant eyes on his pale face.

            “Why do you talk about yourself in such horrible ways? Who said you don’t deserve saving? Who said you’re beyond saving?”

            He didn’t answer, just let his eyes close slowly. There was no answer needed. Who told him? Well, wasn’t it obvious? That simple answer had come from no one but himself.

            “Yeah, alright, I’ll tell him,” he heard a voice say from the next room. Then loud footsteps approaching. He attempted to drown out the sound by shoving his head between the pillows. It was too noisy, too bright.

            “Pansy says she’s sorry for not being here. She has a dress fitting.”

            He cracked one hazy eye and was confronted by the Boy Who Lived in all his morning glory. He hadn’t gone home to change, evidently, and had decided to help himself to one of the t-shirts available. He could tell by the way it barely contained Harry’s noticeably larger biceps. When had he gotten so fit? Although, those shirts weren’t really meant for any averaged sized human being. They still managed to hang loosely on his malnourished frame though.

            _Shit_ , Pansy’s dress fitting. He was supposed to be there, which was a bit ridiculous honestly. He’d already prevented one of her weddings. She shouldn’t want him anywhere near a second one. Apparently, his gay fashion advice was required. He normally didn’t conform to stereotypes, but he had to plead guilty to having an eye for aesthetics. She’d probably choose something horrible without his advice.

            “Frederic Sommer? I’ve never heard of him. I thought she was engaged to Theo Nott.”

            He laughed dryly. “Not once she found out we were shagging. No, Frederic is some obscenely wealthy, German pure-blood. She branched out once she discovered the English families were a bit…”

            “Inbred?” Harry offered.       

            “I was going to say depleted. And I’ll have you know the Malfoy’s never partook in the unsavoury practice of incest.”

            “No, you just married half-bloods and continued preaching blood purity.”

            “Exactly, glad you have your facts straight.” Harry chuckled softly. “What a ridiculous notion. As if our ancestry really had any impact on our power. Granger beat me every year, and she had none. My father used to—” he halted quickly. He knew exactly where that sentence was heading, and unfortunately Harry seemed to as well.

            “Your father used to what?”

            “Preach blood purity and all that,” he said, knowing it wasn’t the least bit believable. “What time is it?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

            “Eight in the morning.” Just about thirty-hours then. Not out of the woods, hopefully through the worst. _Not_ over the worst, he decided with absolute certainty, and futilely attempted to bolt towards the bathroom. He hardly made it off the bed when his legs crumpled under him and he collapsed into a pathetic heap, retching and shaking onto his beautiful, white carpets.

            “Well, good morning then,” he croaked hoarsely. Harry looked at him with a mixture of concern and humour, which was some progress at least. “I need a shower.”

            As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized the horrible consequences of his decision. A shower, for which he certainly didn’t have the strength, which certainly required some degree of assistance, which unfortunately meant Harry Potter, a steamy shower, and him, shaking, vomiting, and looking about as attractive as gussied up skeleton.

            Somehow, that didn’t seem to bother Harry in the least. He simply and obediently helped him to the bathroom and switched the faucet on. A bath would have been better, he thought miserably. Then, at least, he could drown himself and end his suffering. Good, he was wondering when the suicidal thoughts would show up. They were late to the party, but no less intent on ruining him.

            He managed to pull off his own sweat-soaked shirt with shaky, fumbling hands. He knew how he looked, all sharp angles and jutting bones. His skin was so thin and transparent that at certain places it looked like a protruding rip or vertebrae might simply pop out. It was disturbing, but as it turned out, not much of a deterrent to the lust driven fucks he picked up most nights. Certainly a deterrent to Harry Potter though, he noted, not that it was any surprise. He must have been at least two stone heavier when they…

            No, never mind. There was absolutely nothing about their situation that inspired a trip through their sex driven past. No one, Harry least of all, would find a withdrawing addict attractive. _User_ , he reminded himself pitifully.

            “Just…you can’t stand outside the door. You’ll hear me if something happens,” he offered. Harry didn’t outright protest, although he did hesitate slightly. Not that the agreement wasn’t tempting. He had a funny feeling that Harry had as little interest in staying and watching as he had for him remaining at all.

            He stepped into the shower absolutely believing he would slip and fall. He could hardly maintain his balance on stable, dry ground. He was right, of course, and hadn’t even managed to wash the shampoo out of his hair before his head hit the wall with a sickening crack. Blood, hot and red, trickled down his forehead and mixed with the steaming water making its way down the drain. Fucking fantastic.

            He knew what was coming before it even happened. The door burst open and a frenzied, panicked Harry yanked the shower curtain back unceremoniously. First, Harry switched the tap off, then kneeled in front of him, ruining his clean jeans in the process. If he had the slightest presence of mind and wasn’t seeing through pain clouded eyes, he might have made more of a show of acting outraged. He didn’t though and could only sit limply under Harry’s ministrations.

            He knew the actual cut wasn’t bad, head wounds tended not to be, and they always bled more than necessary. Really the only unpleasant side effect was the ringing in his ears and resulting inability to understand a word Harry was saying. He could vaguely make out Harry’s lips moving quickly and worriedly, but the sentiment was difficult to process.

            “Are you okay?” Harry yelled, finally audible.

            “Yes,” he yelled back, a terrible mistake. The sound reverberated off the tile walls and straight into his throbbing head. The pain was almost uncontainable.

            Well, the shower had been a miserably failed experiment. Harry respectfully tossed a towel over him before lifting him off the floor and depositing him back onto the bed. It was more humiliating than he could bear, at least, if he’d been able to devote more than an uninterested thought to it.

            He managed to sleep, albeit fitful, feverish, nightmare ridden sleep. It seemed that every horrifying memory and terrifying individual has chosen his moment of weakness as the perfect time to resume their torment. Not that it ever really ended, he thought. No, there were some things that never stopped, that he’d never be able to forget.

            Suddenly, he was twelve years old again, just back from his first year of Hogwarts. His parents had picked him up from the station, a ritual they more or less maintained for the remainder of his education. Purely for appearance sake, he’d come to understand, they never had any real interest in him. Well, interest in him aside from his status as Malfoy heir. Then, he’d made the fatal mistake of mentioning precious Harry Potter’s rejection of his friendship. From that unfortunate admission had stemmed the worst of his father’s abuse.

            “You will _never_ say that name in my home again, do you understand me boy?”

            “But father—” he stupidly tried to protest.

            “Harry Potter,” his father spat the name with an acid tongue, “deserves everything he’ll be getting once…Draco, you are to end any naïve delusions of friendship with him now, do you understand?”  
            He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to accept his father’s conditions. He’d dreamed about meeting Harry Potter as long as he could remember. He’d dreamed of meeting the miracle boy who’d defeated the Dark Lord, because maybe, just maybe, he could save him too.

            The first blow had been a warning, he knew. His father expected him to repent, and if he did, the punishment would end there. Call it infantile defiance, but he hadn’t said anything. The following blows were harder, more determined, as if his father believed he could beat the insolence out of him. Maybe he had, eventually.

            It continued until he was nothing more than a quivering mass of bruises, bumps, and teary eyes, left for the house elves to come clean up.

            “Draco, do you think you can tolerate some broth? Even just some water?”

            He pried one eye open and found Harry crouching just at the edge of the bed, a tray of bland looking food behind him. He was about to refuse when he realized the nausea had subsided enough that he might just be able to keep some of it down. He nodded hesitantly, which apparently made Harry’s day. He eagerly helped him sit up and offered the broth.

            “I can feed it to myself, thank very much,” he croaked. He couldn’t really, but he wasn’t about to let Harry Potter spoon feed him. His stomach wasn’t altogether pleased about the addition, but it could have been worse. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

            “Slow down,” Harry chided.

            “What time is it?” he asked.

            “Um,” Harry glanced at his watch, “little past nine. Want to watch another movie? Pansy dropped some off, no more, you know, violence and gore.”

            “Pansy was here?” he asked, both alarmed and embarrassed.

            “Yeah, she brought some food. Didn’t want to wake you up, though.”

            Of course she hadn’t. “Did she find a dress?”

            “Yes. It’s horrible. She said she couldn’t figure it out without you.”

            He laughed dryly. She’d found one, he knew, but she hadn’t wanted him to feel guilty. Not that that would have stopped it. Guilt was one emotion that he was more than familiar with. It was his constant companion, joined beautifully by shame and fear.

            They did watch one of the movies she brought, When Harry Met Sally, while he careful sipped on broth and chewed on a slice of bread. Then another, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and another after that. Pansy, the sly devil that she was, had only brought romantic movies. No violence and gore, but more than enough tear jerking, painful, lovelorn commentary.

            Maybe that’s why at nearly three in the morning, Harry Potter decided to kiss him. Just the sappy love stories, he tried to convince himself, not the terrible, inevitable, and more than mutual attraction he felt. How, after watching him sweat, shake, vomit, and hallucinate Harry still felt the motivation to make a move was beyond him.

            It was short and bittersweet, interrupted by the saltiness of tears. His tears, he realized with embarrassment. He tried to pass it off as the withdrawal, but they both knew the truth: that at last Draco Malfoy’s walls had crumbled, just a little bit and only momentarily, of course.

            However, one kiss turned into a few dozen soft, shy pecks as they dozed off in each other’s arms. Normally, one thing would have led to another, but somehow, it was never meant to evolve into something more intense. Just their exhaustion, he tried to rationalize, and the fact that he was still a withdrawing, miserable junkie. But then again, maybe the few short hours where they could both admit and accept their feelings was all they needed. Whatever he felt, he knew it wasn’t the usual urge or compulsion he felt under the pulsing lights and pumping music. Harry wasn’t just another nameless face. He never had been.

            And whatever that meant, he wasn’t ready to label it. If he did, he knew there was no turning back. He knew that admission, that speaking it aloud, would have been the end of him.

 

            As the first glimmers of morning lit up the dewdrops on his bedroom, he realized the storm was over. _Forty-eight hours_. He had made it through the worst of it and was still somehow in one piece. Well, it was less something and more _someone_. Someone who was still peacefully sleeping pressed tightly against his back. Someone who, in spite of his best efforts, against his fervent wishes, and despite all his attempts not to, he was absolutely, hopelessly, and unequivocally in love with.

            Someone who had watching and worried and waited while his body tried its best to cope with its lack of substances. Someone who had fought the tireless battle of helping him, and someone who had likely jeopardized his job by hiding his transgression. Someone who wanted to stay by his side, even after everything he’d been through, even knowing he deserved someone so much better. Perhaps the one person left on the planet who still wanted to fight for Draco Malfoy.

            And someone who, even as selfish as he was, he couldn’t stand to hurt anymore.

            It could be easy, he mused, to stay by Harry’s side, to let love consume them. It might even be nice, and he might feel, dare he say, complete. Until the day when he would inevitably ruin it all, and this time he knew he wasn’t just trying to protect himself.

            No, he would gladly burn and shatter into a million pieces for one day with Harry Potter. One day knowing how much he was loved and being able to tell someone else the same. But that kind of vulnerability, that kind of happiness…it wasn’t meant for people like him. And even if it was, even if he were willing to sacrifice everything that he was, he would never let Harry make the same mistake.

            Harry still had the choice. He wasn’t condemned to the shadows, suffocated by all of his sins. He was still part of the light. He still had love and happiness and…a future. There was no middle way for them. Their worlds could never exist in harmony.

            “Harry,” he whispered, craning his neck so he could see the mass of raven curls tucked into his shoulder. “Harry, I’m leaving.”  
            Harry roused slowly, then move quickly. How adorable, he thought, Harry thought he meant he needed to leave the bed, perhaps another emergency trip to vomit.

            “No, I mean I’m leaving for good. Going somewhere far away, maybe a bit sunnier, certainly warmer,” he mused and once again putting on his cold, unemotional mask.

            “You can’t, the monitoring—”

            “Leave it,” he decided. “You’ll know if I mess up again. I don’t plan to of course, I just need to…” he drifted off. What did he need to do? To escape the constant reminders of his past? Or maybe, just maybe, to escape the temptation of those beautiful, mesmerizing green eyes.

            “Leave,” Harry finished. One word, and yet the best explanation he could give.

            Harry offered to help him make the plans, of course, but he firmly insisted that some things he needed to do on his own. All he provided was a rough estimate of his distance so they could ensure that his monitoring charm would extend to wherever he ended up. They didn’t mention an end date, and maybe that was just as well. Maybe he didn’t even care anymore. Life was a nightmare sober, but then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he watched a sunrise and saw how enchantingly beautiful it was, as pathetic as that sounded. Maybe life without numbness wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

            The one thing Harry stood firm on was at least escorting him to the international floo stations. He’d promised not to ask where he was going, not to listen in for the location. The only way they’d be able to find him, he reassured, was if he triggered the monitoring charm. Otherwise, Draco Malfoy’s whereabouts would be lost with the green flames that took him away.

            “Well, good luck, I suppose,” Harry offered, sounding more miserable than he could ever recall him sounding.

            “Thank you,” he said, because it seemed like the acceptable thing to say. “For everything. For saving me, for helping me, for…well, everything.”  
            Malfoy’s didn’t give out gratitude easily, and only then if it was absolutely necessary. Harry looked somewhat shocked that he had even received a thanks at all, and he certainly hadn’t expected what came next. “I’m sorry.”

            Two words, and he could only remember a handful of times he’d spoken them genuinely. If ever they deserved to be said, it was now.

            “You’re welcome,” Harry mumbled uncomfortably. He never had liked praise, but at least he didn’t outright reject it this time.

            “This is good-bye, for us,” he mused the unspoken truth aloud. “Harry Potter, for what it counts,” he paused, taking the deep breath he needed to finish his words, “you are the best man I’ve ever known. Not for defeating Voldemort, not for saving the world, for who you are inside. Who knows, maybe I’m the only one with the unique qualification to say that with absolute objectivity.

            “And since it’s probably my last chance to say this…against all reason, restraint, and rejection…I think a small part of me has always loved you. I think…a small part of me always will.” More than a small part, he admitted only to himself. Whatever undying love he had for Harry, he would have to let go of it now. _For both of them_.

            Harry stood silently for a long time, occasionally shifting his weight or brushing a stray curl from his face. “You’re really set on going through with this?”

            The desperation in his voice was almost enough to crumble all his resolve, to set down his small suitcase and surrender himself to whatever Harry wanted him to be. _Almost enough_. “I have to,” he stated simply. He had to, he repeated like a mantra.

            Harry nodded sadly and walked him the few remaining steps to the waiting fireplace. He took the last step, and suddenly the long distance between them became too real, an unconquerable valley that they would never travel. Good-bye seemed too small to describe what was about to happen. Good-bye was a casual, calm promise, this was…so heart-breaking there were no words to describe it.

            He grabbed a handful of floo powder, and almost resented the substance that would take him so far away from home, from Harry. And maybe they meant the same thing, maybe they always had.

            “Draco Malfoy, for what it counts, a part of me will always love you too.”  
            The finale to their love story, however short lived and tragic it had been. The words were of no comfort to either of them, and yet, somehow, they were almost a relief. Whatever they had been holding back, it had been said now. There was nothing they could do to avoid their ending anymore, but at least they had ended in honesty. There would be regrets, but he would never regret those last few words.

            Never taking his eyes away from Harry’s face, trying desperately to memorize every detail, he shouted his final destination. He knew Harry would be true to his word. He knew he wouldn’t try to find him. Green flames rose rapidly, ripping away the lasting image of Harry Potter, the man he loved, the man he would always love, and the man he would never see again.


End file.
